Padre Ignacio applied soothing oils to Juan's burns, and cooling lotion to his eyes, working quickly, deft in his long years of practice in healing the physical as well as the spiritual afflictions of mankind.
"Now, I have wrapped you like a mummy," he said at last, "and here you must lie, in darkness of a dungeon until the inflammation subsides out of your eyes. Until that time, we shall not know."
"I suppose the military authorities will hold me to blame for the death of Captain del Valle. They will soon know that I have returned; they will come for me."
"Yes, Juan, your peril is far greater than ever before. Would to God you had gone on—yet I should not say so, I should not say so."
"And when they come?"
"They must wait; Sergeant Olivera is a reasonable man, he will not expect to take you away in this sorrowful condition. A guard will be posted, yet there are means of passing a guard. All depends, in the last moment, on your eyes."
"Is there a hope that I may see again?"
"There is always hope."
Yet little for Juan in the hollow platitude. He lay silent a little spell, wrapped like a mummy, in truth.
"Padre Ignacio, if they station a soldier at this door?"
"No, they shall not enter here."
"They entered the church."
